


Welcome Distractions

by exbex



Series: Jim/John and the aftermath [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Depression, F/M, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-23
Updated: 2013-11-23
Packaged: 2018-01-02 09:48:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1055343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/exbex/pseuds/exbex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John meets Mary Morstan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Welcome Distractions

**Author's Note:**

> If there were a tag for "character has distorted view of himself/herself" it would be attached to this fic. Also, this is a variation of Mary Morstan that I dreamed up (at least I think I did), and probably doesn't resemble any version of Mary who may appear at some point in canon.

John makes sure he is the perfect best man. He would once have laughed at the idea of organizing so much of a wedding, but Sherlock and Victor deserve the best. And the best is what they get. The wedding and the reception are perfect. Everyone has a smashing time. John dances with Mrs. Hudson and other women of a similar age, who seem a bit charmed by him. He doesn’t dance with anyone else, since he does not exude the charm that he once did. (It was always because of his own efforts and exertions that he was able to charm anyone onto the dance floor, into his arms, into bed. Charisma had never come naturally to him).

When it’s over, and Sherlock and Victor are off to Switzerland, and everyone has gone home, John goes back to 221b and has the worst panic attack in a few years. It lingers, a sense of utter despair, a thick fog. His hand shakes so badly as he tries to drink some water that he drops the glass, its fragments spreading across the floor.

It is far from the first time that John has decided that he will never recover, but it’s confusing, that it would happen now, of all times. Observe, he tells himself. When the answer comes to him it’s so simple he wonders at his own obtuseness.

Everything is laid out for him: Sherlock and Victor have one another, Harry is not only sober but is reconciling with Clara, surprisingly enough, and there are pieces of glass all over the floor. John is not one to believe in signs, but the evidence is strong enough for him to draw a logical conclusion. He picks up one of the shards from the floor, contemplates, then wraps a handkerchief around it. It is small enough to fit into a pocket. He won’t do it here; there would be a mess to clean up, and someone like Sherlock or Mrs. Hudson or Victor would find him, and that’s simply not acceptable. He’ll wait a couple of days, then he’ll put on a threadbare pair of trousers, then find some place out of doors, a semi-secluded spot. The glass can saw through worn cloth, cut into a femoral artery, be done with quickly and discreetly, much cleaner and surer than a gunshot wound. Besides, he had never asked whatever Sherlock had done with his Sig.

They’ll be upset for a bit, of course, but they’ll recover.

**

John has only drank a third of his pint. The beer hasn’t settled well in his stomach. The majority of the pub’s patrons are crowded around the bar, watching the match with rapt attention, while John is sitting in a booth. It’s an exciting match, but these days John prefers to watch the matches in his bedroom at Baker Street, the sound turned down low, or sometimes with Harry. Lestrade had cajoled him into coming to the pub though, and John wants to see the end of it more than he wishes to make an excuse to leave, in spite of the discomfort in his stomach and his mind. Besides, he wants to put off his plan for a bit, though the shard of glass, wrapped in cloth, is secure in his coat pocket. And behaving as if everything is alright will make it seem as if he is alright to Lestrade.

“Do you mind if I join you?”

John turns to what he believes is an American accent, to see a pretty redhead. He blinks in surprise, taking in her impeccable outfit, her demeanor that somehow seems both assertive and demure.

“I don’t mean to intrude…”

“No no, it’s fine. Please, have a seat.” 

She sits down, gently setting her own half-empty pint down. “I’m afraid I’m a bit lost,” she says, gesturing towards the television. “But I do enjoy a good pint and a good pub. I’m Mary, by the way. Mary Morstan.”

Mary extends a hand and John takes it. “John Watson. What brings you to London, Mary?”

“I’m teaching at University College. Engineering. And what is it you do, John? Besides watch rugby at pubs.”

Her smile is infectious, friendly but not overly eager. John can’t help but smile back. “I’m a doctor. Currently A&E, though I’ve returned to school to study pathology.”

Mary is easy to chat to, and she doesn’t mind pausing the conversation to take in the more exciting parts of the match, which turns out to be only the first unexpected development of the evening. There’s a chemistry between them, almost unrecognizable to John because it’s been so long.

The match has just come to what is now a predictable close when Mary nods to her empty glass and John’s barely touched, now warm, pint. “Would you like to continue over a cup of coffee, or some tea? I have to say I’m enjoying myself too much to go home yet.”

It’s as familiar as it is surprising, how much John wants to take Mary up on her offer. Her directness and her openness, her lack of pretense and expectation, push John to accept her offer without hesitation. “I’d like that.”

John takes her hand and finds his way to the bar. The match has finished, and Lestrade is looking around a bit sheepishly at having forgotten about John. When he catches sight of John with Mary, there’s just a flash of surprise before he carefully schools his expression. John makes the introductions and Mary and Greg shake hands.

“Mary and I are going for coffee, and I’ll make my way home eventually.”

Lestrade looks as if he wants to say something, but just gives them a nod and a “thanks for coming out, mate.”

They continue with conversation as they walk and then find a place that’s still serving coffee. John carefully observes three things: 1) Mary doesn’t bat an eye when he just has water, 2) When he walks her to the Tube station and he shakes her hand, she doesn’t look disappointed, 3) She does hand him a card with her name, her mobile number, her office number, and her email address. “I’d love it if you called me sometime.” Her straightforwardness is charming, not off-putting, her desire clear but not forceful, unpretentious.

It’s not until he’s carefully locked himself away in his bedroom back at 221b, drowsily thumbing through a book that the rest occurs to him: the evening with Mary had been effortless. That effortlessness had only ever happened with Sherlock. John has never known who he is, and for the second time in his life, with the second person he’s ever met, it hasn’t mattered.

He doesn't remember his foiled plan until he's lying awake the next morning. John knows that he should feel alarmed, and perhaps bewildered at the outlandishness of it, but all he can think is that he has a distraction now, and he wants to see where it takes him. He wonders if this is what Sherlock used to feel, still seems to experience occasionally; that he would follow a distraction until the next danger night. He reaches for his phone and his wallet, finds the card that Mary had given him, then fires off a text. 

Last night was nice. We’ll have to do it again sometime soon. –JW

Her reply is quick, direct. 

Yes, let’s. :) –MM

John thinks, idly, that he should feel worried, and probably a bit guilty, that he’s starting something he can’t see through, that he’s potentially leading her on, subjecting her to all of his baggage.

He drifts off to sleep instead.


End file.
